


Nicobar

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, F/M, Gelsomina, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fictional modern country where slavery is legal, a disgraced British soldier finds that he’s attracted the attention of a dangerous wealthy man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nicobar

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe. I have been inspired by numerous other thought-provoking slavery fics I’ve read; I hope it’s not too similar.

Welcome to your new life, same as your old life.

Well, of course that wasn’t literally true. There was a lot less shooting in this life, better food, more comfortable accommodations, and more leisure activities. So compared to being in the Army, this whole ‘slave’ thing wasn’t too bad so far.

There was more pain, yes; constant, fiery pain that the over-the-counter painkillers he was allowed made no dent in. That wasn’t due to being a slave, though, that was due to being bloody stupid and stubborn; his leg would hurt the same if he was limping around London, totally free, completely responsible for himself, and trying to get by on an Army pension (assuming no court-martial and dishonorable discharge, because hey, it was all theoretical anyway).

Sometimes the bit about less responsibility rankled him the most of all—he was taking inventories of medical supplies, typing up patient notes, and delivering mail, all low-level duties you didn’t actually need a medical background for, just common sense and a smidge of intelligence. He used to perform surgeries in the middle of a _battlefield_. Now the only time he got to do something doctor-like was when he treated minor injuries for other slaves—the free patients couldn’t possibly be helped by a slave, and usually weren’t even supposed to _see_ him; and slaves with more serious problems were treated by the ‘real’ doctors. Some people would say this was a good life. But John had always found that feeling competent trumped feeling free of responsibilities.

He parted a curtain and limped over to a bed, smiling even before he’d seen who was there—he’d heard her voice as he walked along checking on all the slave patients. Molly broke off reading aloud from her book and smiled back at him. “Hello, John!”

“Hello, Molly. How are you feeling, Agnes?” he asked the older woman lying in the bed, checking the recent output of the monitors attached to her.

“Oh, much better now that I can roll over again,” she replied, sounding more upbeat than she had for the past couple of days. A heart attack will do that to you.

He looked over her chart, making a note that he’d been there. “You need anything?” he asked her. “Says you’re cleared for soft foods—maybe a pudding or a banana or something?”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Agnes sighed, and John smiled at her.

“I’ll bring you something,” he promised. “What are we reading today?”

“Vampire romance,” Agnes replied, a bit less positively.

“I _love_ vampire romances,” Molly enthused, showing him the book cover.

“You would,” Agnes sniffed, not unkindly.

John glanced at the cover illustration showing a befanged man with dark hair and excellent cheekbones looming over an innocent-looking young woman. “Very therapeutic, I’m sure,” he commented dryly, and Molly laughed knowingly.

That was another thing about being a slave here. A lot of the other people were… nice. Sure, the free people tended to look down their noses a bit, and you never found a large group without a few bad apples, but by and large the people he socialized with had been friendly and welcoming. Maybe there was some kind of automatic bond when you were at the bottom rung of the ladder—not too different from the Army, that. Molly was a sweet girl who came to visit Agnes every day and read to her; as far as John could tell they weren’t related, they were just friends. He had seen Molly around other places, too, the slave quarters’ common areas for example, and she seemed just as pleasant with everyone she met.

Which was more than one could say for one’s fellow soldiers.

“I’ll check on the others, then be back with a snack for you,” John promised Agnes, starting to leave.

“Oh, is your leg any better?” Molly asked him with concern.

“Um, no,” he answered carefully, trying to be cheerful. He didn’t _ever_ expect it to get better, actually. Maybe if he could go home, have a normal life, get proper therapy—well, he’d never liked therapy. And he didn’t exactly have anyone to go home _to_.

“John?” Molly asked tentatively, and he realized he’d drifted away while standing there.

“Oh, sorry,” he told her with a tight smile. “Um, I’ll see you later.” He suddenly felt like _not_ being around friendly, concerned people. Stupid but there it was.

“Okay,” Molly agreed.

“Thank you, John,” Agnes told him. He acknowledged them both and limped away.

**

“Split bamboo cane,” Sherlock pointed out, showing the object to Molly with some pride. “I made it myself.”

She poked at the bamboo strips dubiously. “Oh, it’s very nice.”

Her voice lacked enthusiasm. “Problem?” Sherlock questioned in annoyance.

“No, not at all,” Molly insisted hurriedly.

“Well, alright then.” He nodded towards the bed and Molly quickly stripped off her clothes while Sherlock twirled the cane experimentally and slashed it at the air. Molly’s heart pounded with anticipation as she undressed and her cheeks started to flush. Pain was nothing new to her. It was comforting, in a way, to know what hurt and why, and that it would soon heal and be forgotten. That kind of pain was manageable.

And with Sherlock, pleasure always followed the pain.

She caught him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, less dispassionate than he might otherwise seem, and she shivered with excitement. “Are you cold?” he asked as she lay facedown on the bed. She didn’t hear his tone, which was abrupt, but rather his motivation, that he was concerned about her. At least, that was her interpretation.

“No, I’m fine,” she assured him warmly, resting her cheek on her hands. She watched him stretch, the fine material of his shirt pulling taut over his muscles, and her breath quickened. He turned on her, bright blue eyes scanning her intently, and he walked over to brush her hair off her back and over her shoulder, clearing his canvas. He trailed his fingertips down the back of her neck, crouching suddenly to peer at her skin at eye level, as if making sure everything was in place. Then he stood, hand lingering on her lower back. She forced herself to lie still under it.

“Three strikes should be sufficient,” he told her, his honeyed voice soothing to her even as his hand seemed to burn her skin as it idly trailed lower. “It has a wide spread.”

“Okay,” she agreed with a pleased sigh, not even really processing his words.

“And then we’ll have sex, if you want.” He hardly needed to mention this part, it was what she was counting on. Or at least, having his undivided attention for a while.

“Okay,” she repeated easily.

Sherlock stepped away from her and grabbed the bamboo cane. “Ready?” Molly turned her face to the mattress and took a deep breath. She heard the whistle of the object through the air and felt its impact on her back, a surprisingly wide area as he had mentioned, but with a penetration she hadn’t expected. She had just enough time to realize this was really going to hurt, before the pain hit her brain and stole her breath away, and she let out a strangled cry and tried to jerk away from it.

“S—t!” This was not a comforting sound from Sherlock and Molly’s eyes filled with tears; she didn’t think she could take two more like that, which would no doubt disappoint him. Even now he was hurrying from the room and she cried harder, both at the pain and her own failure to manage it like she usually did. That was why he _liked_ her, why he sent for her more often than any other slave—

“Okay, Molly, calm down,” Sherlock told her, his tone comforting. “Shh, you’re alright.” His hand stroked her hair, the back of her neck.

“S-sorry,” she gasped out.

“No, it’s my fault,” he claimed. Something was draped over her back and the light pressure made her squirm as it burned her skin. Sherlock climbed onto the bed, straddling her thighs, but she wasn’t able to appreciate it as she wished. “It’s my fault, I miscalculated—“ This was rare, and very frustrating to him. “Shh, shh, deep breath,” he told her, caressing her shoulders and arms. “Shh, Molly, you’ll be alright. No more today.”

This did not soothe her. “You said three!” she sobbed.

“Well, one was quite enough,” Sherlock judged. He pressed lightly on part of her back and she recoiled in agony. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just trying to stop the bleeding—“

“Bleeding?” Molly sniffed in confusion. Usually he didn’t break the skin that much.

“The edges must have been sharper than I realized,” he assessed clinically. Sherlock leaned over her, his weight resting on his arms instead of her back, and nuzzled her ear. “Shh, Molly, calm down, you’re alright. Trust me. Trust your master.”

“Did I do something wrong?” she wanted to know. “Did I move, or—“

Sherlock rolled off her and lay on his side on the bed, tucking a blanket over her lower half. It seemed to be a towel that was draped over her back, she saw as she turned to face him. “No, no, it was my fault,” he repeated, brushing her hair back from her face. “It was my fault. Just relax, Molly. You’re safe now.” He scooted close enough that she could rest her head on his arm, feel the warmth radiating from his body. He ran his hand over her hair, her throat, her arm, her cheek—the places that had escaped injury. He frowned slightly as he watched her, but she didn’t care; she could gaze at his blue eyes all day, no matter what expression went with them. She tried to change position a bit but her back, which had reduced to a low, steady thrum of pain, flared viciously. “Just relax,” Sherlock told her again. “Lie still. Close your eyes.”

“Do I have to?” Molly asked with disappointment.

Sherlock smiled faintly. “No,” he allowed. He leaned forward and brushed his lips across her forehead. “This is not what I meant to happen,” he assured her, clearly irritated at himself. “I’ll make it up to you later. Think about what you would like.”

“Can we go ice skating?” Molly asked.

“Let’s not get carried away,” Sherlock replied quickly, as she knew he would. “I didn’t cause _permanent_ damage. You’ll be fine in a few days.” Sherlock was not adept at ice skating and he tried to avoid things he was not adept at. “I was thinking more like, sex without an experiment first. Maybe with dinner at Angelo’s first.”

Molly’s face fell. “Is it that bad?” she asked worriedly.

Sherlock peeled away part of the towel to take another look. “Well, dinner in, _from_ Angelo’s,” he downgraded, which made her feel better. “It’s mostly stopped bleeding already. Should be interesting marks in a couple of days.”

This cheered her—it meant he would want to see her again, in a couple of days to sketch the marks. So she hadn’t caused him a complete waste of time; Sherlock hated wasting time. She shifted a bit more, almost forgetting that she shouldn’t, and was punished by a stab of agony.

Sherlock slid closer, resting his hand on her rear end over the blanket. “You’re not being very obedient, Molly,” he murmured in her ear, his rich voice making her shiver. “I told you to lie still. Perhaps you could even go to sleep. You don’t want me to punish you, do you?”

Actually Molly would _love_ for Sherlock to punish her, in a pleasurable sense, of course—the sense that was difficult to explain to other people. She could lie still in his arms, she supposed, but she definitely didn’t want to go to sleep and waste _her_ time with him. “How would you punish me?” she asked, pleasantly anticipatory.

Sherlock smirked at her a little. “No, no, I’m not going to tell you,” he denied in a low purr, “because you’re a naughty girl and you would enjoy it too much. And then you wouldn’t get the rest you need.”

“Do I need rest?” Molly sighed. The evening had barely begun for them.

Sherlock took another look at her injuries and grimaced slightly. “I think it would be for the best,” he judged. He started to pull away, carefully. “You just lie here, and I’ll—“

Boldly Molly squeezed his arm, halting him. It was not her place to ask for anything, she understood that and didn’t want to disrupt the relationship they had. But it would be so terribly disappointing if he left _now_ , when she’d been looking forward to this evening since she’d heard he’d requested her that afternoon… Heart fluttering with her daring she met his quizzical gaze. “Can you stay a little longer?” she suggested, hesitantly.

He looked perplexed, but not angry, at her request. “Alright, if you like,” he conceded. Clearly he didn’t know why it mattered to her but that wasn’t the point; the point was he was scooting closer, until her shoulder rested against his chest and his breath ghosted across her neck. Now, maybe, she could close her eyes and risk falling asleep, knowing he wouldn’t move for a while. At least, until he got bored—which didn’t take very long at all.

**

So, downside of being a slave: your masters could beat you whenever they wanted, for no reason at all, just because it suited them. This had been covered in the training he’d had—he rather thought it implicit in the concept of slavery—but it hadn’t really been brought home until now, until he sat beside Molly as she lay on a table in the Infirmary, dabbing at the slashes on her back and getting angrier and angrier.

“I’d heard Lord Mycroft wasn’t much for beatings,” John said neutrally, as neutrally as such a thing could be said.

“Oh, it wasn’t Lord Mycroft,” Molly assured him. He’d given her a painkiller and something to bring down her fever, so she was slightly loopy now. “It was Master Sherlock. His brother. His younger brother. But he doesn’t like being reminded of that,” she warned seriously.

John nodded as if he understood the importance of that. “Is he—is he the one they call mad?” he asked quietly. It seemed unwise to be discussing it, but he’d heard rumors about the man, even while in the Army—they were a prominent family in this culture, and soldiers were not immune to celebrity gossip.

“I don’t know,” Molly claimed. “Probably. No one calls him that to me!” she asserted, as though they wouldn’t dare. “He’s not mad, he’s very rational.”

“Yes, so I see.” John had a lot of experience at not letting his anger at a situation seep out into its victim. “Can I ask, why did he flog you?” Could be important to know, for future avoidance.

“It was an _experiment_ ,” Molly told him seriously. “It was supposed to be _three_ strikes but he stopped after only one.” John really hoped it was the drugs that made her sound sad about this.

“Just _one_? What did he hit you _with_?”

“Split bamboo cane,” she answered dreamily. “He made it himself.”

“How lovely. You should have come to the Infirmary right away,” John chided lightly, applying another bandage.

“He doesn’t _like_ me to have them treated, he wants to see the natural progression,” Molly insisted sadly. “He’ll be so disappointed.” Tears, actual tears, formed in her eyes.

Another downside of slavery—people forming twisted rationales to explain their own abuse at the hands of their ‘betters.’ Physical damage someone could get over; but the psychological impacts left scars that never healed. John felt slightly sick thinking about it.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Molly,” he soothed her, as best he could. “You’ll feel better soon. There won’t be any scarring, I don’t think. Do you—do you want me to talk to someone?” he offered dangerously. “About what he did?” He was unsure what good it would do, but he was willing to try.

“No,” Molly sighed sleepily. “I’m sure everybody already knows.” She dozed off before John could ask what she meant by that.

**

Evening roll call, when all the house slaves gathered in the assembly room so the slave supervisor could check them off, make sure no one had escaped since the morning roll call twelve hours earlier. Not that John was actually contemplating a break-out, but the appeal of the idea had become more apparent to him since he’d treated Molly’s injuries that afternoon.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered to her, as he slipped into the seat next to her.

Molly wore a loose shirt and hunched forward slightly, so her back wouldn’t touch the chair. “Oh, I’m alright,” she claimed, reasonably cheerful even though her pain meds must be wearing off by now. “Sorry, bit groggy, I was just taking a nap,” she added with a yawn. “I’ve been sleeping a lot lately.”

“It’s good for you,” John assured her.

Someone walked into the room, late for roll call John thought at first—but then he saw a smile flash across Molly’s face and everyone stood up, so he pushed himself to his feet as well and stared at the visitor. There was no need to ask Molly who he was: the expensive suit, the arrogant attitude—he hadn’t even looked up from his phone—it had to be Lord Mycroft’s brother. Well, John supposed it could be another member of the extended family who lived here as masters, but somehow he knew it wasn’t. This was the man who had put those stripes on Molly’s back, for no reason beyond his own amusement, and John regarded him coldly. Tall, slim, dark curly hair, high cheekbones, brilliant blue eyes—well, just because someone was good-looking didn’t make them less of a monster.

He _was_ rather good-looking, though.

“I need Molly to finish my experiment,” Master Sherlock said to Sally, the slave supervisor, interrupting her task without regard. His voice was deeper than John had expected. Not that he’d given it much thought.

Eagerly Molly started to walk forward; of course she would be happy to be used by him again. Psychological torture, John reminded himself firmly.

Sally gave her master a narrow look. “Molly is on light duty, thanks to your experiment, and not available,” she countered firmly, and John nodded along. This was one of the few areas where a slave had power over the masters, and Sally was not afraid to use it.

Sherlock finally looked up from his phone, annoyed with her resistance. “What? Molly, get over here,” he ordered the young woman, who had frozen at Sally’s command.

“ _You_ are not light duty!” Sally dared to snap at him. Apparently the two of them had a bit of history, John had heard—a history of her being the only thing standing between him and the abuse of slaves, it seemed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did not seem to find it worth the fight today. “Fine. I just wanted to see the marks.” He turned to Molly. “We’ll do it here. Take your shirt off.”

John’s eyes widened slightly at the command, but when he glanced around he saw that no one else seemed to find it uncomfortable. Molly herself appeared to have no embarrassment about pulling her shirt off; she clutched it to her otherwise bare chest, but not tightly. Sally rolled her eyes and went on with checking attendance; apparently this was not an unusual occurrence. Everyone had to stay on their feet, though, not that Sherlock cared about the inconvenience he caused.

Indeed, his attention was completely fixed on Molly’s back, and he was frowning. “These have been treated,” he observed with displeasure. “Molly! You know that interferes with my experiments!”

John felt his jaw tighten and his hand squeeze the top of his cane. Could someone really be so self-absorbed, so cold-hearted, and still be considered a member of polite society? What kind of country _was_ this?

“Sorry!” Molly replied regretfully. “They really hurt, though. I got a fever!”

The kind of country with an institutionalized system of slavery, John added to himself, fairly twitching with anger now. That made certain people believe they were lesser human beings, who deserved _nothing_ but received only what their betters deigned to allow.

Although he had to admit Molly didn’t seem _afraid_. But maybe that was because Sherlock didn’t seem upset, merely annoyed.

“Oh. Really?” Her fever was of mild interest to him only. “Well, maybe I can salvage—“

He grasped one of the bandages John had applied, as if to remove it, and John couldn’t take anymore. If no one else was going to intervene, he would do so himself.

“Stop it, you can’t take off the bandages,” he said shortly, limping forward. Sherlock froze and turned to him in surprise; every eye in the place was fixed on John. But he didn’t care. “The wounds will get infected again.”

Slowly, Sherlock drew his hand away from Molly. His blue eyes scanned John from top to bottom and back again, seeming to penetrate his flesh like an X-ray. There was something… exhilarating about the attention, like this was a man who very rarely found anything unpredictable or interesting, and when he did, he didn’t let it go until he’d exposed all of its secrets. He circled John like a shark, and John felt his face grow hot but he stood his ground. The assembly room was eerily silent.

“Who’s this?” Sherlock finally asked Molly, abruptly.

“That’s John,” Molly told him pleasantly. She did not seem perturbed by Sherlock’s laser-like focus, but then again it wasn’t directed at _her_. “He’s very nice.”

At this Sherlock’s gaze finally flickered away from John and over to her. “You think _I’m_ nice,” he claimed, “so, not much of an endorsement.” Now he met John’s eye and spoke directly to him. “Are you volunteering to take her place?”

He expected the answer would be no. “Yeah, sure, alright,” John heard himself saying, as if it was no big deal. In reality his heart was pounding in his chest, not with fear though, more like… anticipation. This man was everything John should _not_ be drawn to, from his casual arrogance and cruelty to his stylish clothes and high social position. Everything about him screamed ‘not your type,’ not to mention ‘dangerous.’ But still he stared at John assessingly, and John stared right back, wondering what sort of thoughts were passing across his eyes. Maybe he really didn’t want to know.

Sally’s sudden appearance nearby startled him. “He’s new—“

“Obviously,” Sherlock interrupted. This did not dissuade him.

“He hasn’t been trained yet—“

John recognized she was trying to help him, but it wasn’t necessary. He was committed to this recklessness. “I can take a flogging,” he said coolly. What further training could he need? “Better than Molly can, anyway.”

The comment was meant to shame, but Sherlock merely snorted, a smirk tugging on his full lips. “Well you’re wrong there,” he asserted dryly, “but I take that as a challenge.” John did not think his situation had improved.

Sherlock’s gaze shifted expectantly to Sally. “Fine,” she replied shortly, tapping at her phone. “You’ve got him for the night.” And just like that, John’s fate was sealed.

Suddenly Molly took Sherlock’s hand and when he turned to her she stretched up to whisper in his ear; John had the uncomfortable feeling he was being talked about. He focused instead on how Sherlock caressed Molly’s shoulder when he leaned down to murmur his reply in turn, and ended by kissing her forehead lightly. It was surprisingly tender, in John’s view, and unexpected.

Then without another word or glance, Sherlock strode from the room. Molly gave John a look suggesting he should follow and he went limping after, trying not to lose the other man when he turned a sharp corner. His leg protested the pace and John decided he would have to slow down.

“Sorry, could you—“ he was forced to ask.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at him, then decreased his speed. “That limp is only psychosomatic,” he pronounced, waiting for John to catch up.

“It hurts anyway,” John muttered through clenched teeth, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Um, how did you know that?” he asked self-consciously. “Did you look me up?” He indicated the smart phone Sherlock seemed attached to.

At this Sherlock stopped completely and dropped the phone in his jacket pocket. Ice shot through John’s stomach—of course, there was probably some kind of rule against slaves asking questions of their masters. Sherlock advanced on him slowly, eyes flickering over John even faster than before, and with a start John felt the wall at his back and realized he was trapped.

“I don’t need to look you up,” Sherlock claimed. “I can tell you’re a British Army doctor with a history of insubordination, recently wounded during your posting in Gelsomina. No great family, not too proud, seen more than a bit of trouble. Strong moral compass but I do question your intelligence.”

He spat all this out rapid-fire, leaving John amazed. Maybe Molly had told him--? But she would’ve had to look some of that up as well—“How do you know all that?” he asked.

“Easy enough,” Sherlock shrugged, slightly boastful. “Accent is English, military bearing. We’ve imported officers to train and modernize our army, you must be one of those. Tan lines suggest a lot of sun recently, most likely putting down the rebellion in Gelsomina. You only interfered with me when I was about to remove Molly’s bandages—medical background. So, British citizen, respected Army doctor sent abroad, how did _you_ become a slave? Must’ve done something quite bad. Active insubordination—probably disagreed with your CO over some humanitarian issue, prisoners or captures comrades perhaps, disobeyed orders, sabotage, deception. Injured in the attempt, court-martialed, slated for execution _but_ willing to be sold into slavery to preserve your life. Obviously you’re not anyone too important to England or they would’ve demanded you back. Soft spot for Molly—believe me, she doesn’t need your help—maybe you think of her as a little sister, don’t go down that line because if I like you I’ll want you two to play together. You limp when you walk but you forget about it when sufficiently distracted, so it’s only psychosomatic, but does suggest the original injury was traumatic. Well it would be of course if you’re sneaking off to rescue someone from the enemy in the middle of a war against orders. What was your name again?”

“John,” he stuttered, completely blown away.

“Very unmemorable but I’ll try.”

Sherlock blinked at him, waiting for his reaction. He seemed slightly defensive, though John couldn’t imagine why. “That was… brilliant,” he finally said, finding the term woefully inadequate.

“Really,” Sherlock commented. He still seemed a bit unsatisfied. “I got it all right?”

John thought back through everything he’d said. “Well, I don’t really have a _history_ of insubordination,” he felt compelled to point out. “It was just—“

“Don’t care. Here you are,” Sherlock interrupted abruptly. John supposed he had a point. Sherlock started walking again, but more slowly so John had a chance of keeping up. “Anything else?”

“It was all spot-on,” John assured him, looking over the fading tan lines on his wrists. “Just… brilliant.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock admitted.

“What do they usually say?”

“P—s off.”

John laughed. He could easily imagine that, this arrogant young man from a privileged background sizing up others with a glance and judging them. You didn’t make a lot of friends with that sort of technique.

Sherlock gave him an odd look over his shoulder. “Had sex with men _and_ women?” he checked, a bit loudly for John’s taste as they were coming up on a guard station.

“Um, well, yeah,” John agreed, then quickly changed the subject. “Why did you say you questioned my intelligence?” He glanced back in surprise as they breezed through the security doors to the family zone, the guards not stopping Sherlock to ask for his ID. Neither the guards nor the door might have been there, for all the attention Sherlock paid them.

“You volunteered to spend the night with me in place of Molly even after seeing what I did to her,” Sherlock replied, in answer to his question.

“Oh, I thought that was part of the ‘strong moral compass,’” John suggested lightly, gazing around at the wider, better lit and decorated hallways here.

“It’s amazing how often those overlap,” Sherlock judged cynically. He stopped at a paneled wooden door. “This is my room. Do you remember how you got here?”

John tried to orient himself. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good.” Sherlock unlocked the door with a swipe of his thumb and entered, holding it open for John. The main room was an open sort of living room-dining room-kitchen combination cluttered with newspapers, plants, and vaguely scientific accessories like forceps and latex gloves. John really hoped those didn’t relate to the hobby he was about to participate in.

“If you need to use the loo first, use that one,” Sherlock told him, pointing to a small room just before the hallway began.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” John assured him, limping down the hall after him.

The bedroom he arrived in was an odd mixture of opulence and neglect—a luxurious room given to someone who had no need or appreciation for luxury, who piled books and folders on the chaise lounge, draped clothing carelessly over the antique chairs, and stored a wicked-looking collection of whips in the armoire. John’s eyebrows rose as he glimpsed the various implements on display while Sherlock obtained the one he wanted.

“Get bored, do you?” he heard himself say dryly. When Sherlock turned to him with a look of mild surprise he reminded himself to keep his mouth shut.

“Terribly,” Sherlock admitted after a moment. There was an awkward silence—John didn’t have anywhere else to go with that remark. “Take your clothes off and lie face down on the bed,” Sherlock instructed professionally.

John did so, as Sherlock moved around the room gathering up objects and adjusting things. This deep in the compound, the light coming from the windows was artificial, though set to mimic the natural outside conditions—unless someone overrode it to turn night into day, as Sherlock apparently preferred. John kept his mind on details like that, distant from what he was actually doing with his body, trying to be as straightforward about it as Sherlock was being—at least at the moment. John was not sure what would happen if Sherlock fixed him with that stare again, that intense interest. He tried to pretend he was just at the doctor’s for a check-up, for once glad that the pain in his leg distracted him from other thoughts.

Sherlock stood over him, hands on his slim hips, assessing him. His clothes were expensive and well-tailored, but he treated them carelessly; he’d always had money, John deduced, not feeling that was very insightful. He’d always gotten what he wanted. Well, maybe not the full excitement or challenge or whatever he really craved, hence the boredom; but tangible things, he’d always gotten. And whether they were books or clothes or people, there was no need to be careful with them, because there was always more where they came from. That thought did not comfort John.

“Try to think less, John,” Sherlock said suddenly, and the other man started, irrationally worried he could read his mind. “It’s making you tense. Are you cold?”

“It’s a bit cool, yeah,” John agreed, trying against all odds to relax.

“Cold, or just a bit cool?”

“Just a bit cool.”

Sherlock dismissed this. “Activity will warm you up,” he declared. “Whatever position you choose you’ll need to hold until I’m done, so get comfortable.” John scooted around a bit, pulling his arms up and resting his head on them. He was facing Sherlock and had trouble maintaining his semi-relaxed state when the other man suddenly dropped to a crouch, peering across John’s back at eye level. Then he scrambled up onto the bed, staring at it from several new angles over the course of a minute. In his dark clothes John could imagine him as some kind of hovering demon about to suck his blood. Or something else.

“Problem?” John asked, clearing his throat.

“You have some minor scarring,” Sherlock noted. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though.”

“Oh good.”

Sherlock quickly took a picture of John’s back with his phone— _just_ his back, John was pleased to see when he was shown the image. “Wouldn’t want them to interfere with my experimental results,” Sherlock explained.

“No, I see.” Sherlock obviously took this rather seriously; John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Clearly he wasn’t your average sicko doing this just for kicks. But then again, those people were never average, were they?

Sherlock climbed back off the bed. “I will be using this on you,” he announced, holding a split-bamboo cane in John’s eyeline.

He grimaced at it, feeling slightly ill. “That’s what you hit Molly with,” he stated.

“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock glanced at him. “There was a—miscalculation with Molly,” he continued after a moment. John could see the admission of a mistake pained him. “I’ve been practicing since and I’m now proficient in the correct technique. You should experience shallow cuts only.”

John frowned and propped himself up on his elbows, which was not the position Sherlock wanted. “Hang on. You’ve been _practicing_? On who?”

“Cadavers at the city morgue,” Sherlock replied, as if somehow this should be understood already.

“Then what am _I_ here for?” John wanted to know. Cadavers were, perhaps ironically, a much more normal outlet for this sort of thing, he thought.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously the effect on a live human is very different from that on a cadaver, John!” he said in a complaining tone. “Bruising pattern, pain level, rate of healing—“

“Okay, okay,” John sighed, putting his head back down. On the surface it made a strange kind of sense, and he decided not to think about it any deeper than that.

“I should think you would appreciate the details, being a medical man,” Sherlock went on, sounding just slightly defensive.

“Whatever,” John dismissed. “Can we just get on with this, please?”

This was not the response Sherlock was used to getting, but John didn’t care. _He_ was the one about to get flogged, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, so he didn’t think a little lip would make things worse.

“I’ll be hitting you with this three times,” Sherlock finally announced.

“Fine.”

“Turn your face away.” John did so, now unable to see what Sherlock was doing—from the sounds it seemed to be _nothing_. Long seconds ticked by. “John, it’s better if you’re not so tense,” Sherlock had the gall to suggest, and John snorted.

“Not tense? _You_ try lying here waiting for someone to—“ Too late he heard the slight whistle of air, then felt the bamboo crash down on his lower back.

“Don’t move!” Sherlock warned, and John froze in place, fingers and toes digging into the blankets even as the pain shot through him.

“J---s C----t!” he swore, burying his face against the mattress. He didn’t even notice that Sherlock had straddled him and was peering at the resulting marks closely.

“Excellent,” Sherlock murmured. “Hardly any damage at all.”

“Really?” John asked with disbelief. He certainly didn’t _feel_ undamaged.

“Well, by _my_ standards.” John sighed helplessly. “Describe the sensation for me,” Sherlock instructed academically. John did not look back to see if he actually had a clipboard.

“ _Describe it?!_ ” he sputtered indignantly. “It really f-----g hurt, okay?!”

“No, that’s _not_ okay, John,” Sherlock countered patronizingly. “Use more specific terms. Try to be scientific.”

John tried. Because otherwise he was just going to start thinking about Sherlock sitting astride his naked thighs, and that wasn’t a good idea at all. “Um, hmm, okay,” he floundered. “Um, cold.”

“Cold?” Sherlock repeated, intrigued.

“I dunno, I guess from the adrenaline maybe?” John expanded. “My heart’s pounding and I feel really cold inside. Like I’m just suddenly full of ice.”

“Are you just uttering random gibberish?” Sherlock asked suspiciously, getting off of him.

“No!” John insisted, affronted. “You asked me how it felt, I’m telling you.”

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed, still sounding dubious. “Let’s do the second one. Turn your face away. Here.” He tucked a pillow over John’s head.

John immediately removed it. “What are you doing?” he asked untrustingly. He wasn’t getting _smothered_ for science.

“It’s to protect your face,” Sherlock informed him, obviously. “Now lie still!” He adjusted the pillow over John’s head, neck, and part of his arms again. Light and sound were muffled underneath it, and nothing happened for long enough that it started to become warm and stuffy. John was about to complain again, then he realized what Sherlock was waiting for and forced his muscles to loosen.

He was ‘rewarded’ with another crack, this one more across the center of his back. Then the pillow was pulled away. “Thoughts?” Sherlock inquired blandly.

“Like a… grapevine… of fire… just crawling across my back, in twisty tendrils,” John breathed. He felt rather than saw Sherlock’s eyebrows rise. “I hope that’s not too metaphorical for you,” he added acidly, relaxing as the pain was absorbed into his body.

“A bit flowery, but evocative,” Sherlock allowed. “One more.” He rearranged the pillow and John remembered to breathe and not tense up. The final blow struck his upper back, with some pressure on the protective pillow. A wise precaution, then.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, revealing his face to the light once more.

“It makes me think of those pictures of volcanoes erupting in Hawaii,” John remarked. “There’s the black cooled lava, and it’s broken by cracks of red-hot fresh lava. That’s what it feels like.”

“Like your skin has been covered in lava?” Sherlock scoffed. He was doing something on the other side of the room. “That _hardly_ seems accurate, John.”

“Well, that’s just how it feels,” John persisted. “It’s _my_ back, _I_ get to say. Like uneven cracks of pain across a surface.”

“You’re overstating it,” Sherlock accused. He returned to the bed and took another picture, handing the phone to John. He was surprised to see that his back, though flushed, did not actually have visible cuts in it, not even when he zoomed in.

“Huh,” he commented curiously.

“Yes, you will not be permanently injured,” Sherlock assured him, as if this was a silly fear. “You are not to have any treatment,” he warned sternly. “Brief showers only, no ice, no disinfectant, nothing. Understood?”

John sighed and laid his head back down. “You have a very medieval hobby,” he declared. Sherlock did not respond but rather moved around the room, rattling drawers and cabinets. John didn’t look; he didn’t really want to know what he was doing. Eventually lying there naked became a bit awkward, though. “Are we done?” he asked.

“We’re done with the experiment portion,” Sherlock replied. He draped himself across the bed next to John suddenly, completely naked. Or so John assumed, he didn’t dare let his eyes stray from the blue ones regarding him with dangerous interest. “Does your back hurt?”

“Huh?” John asked, hearing only a noise and not words.

Full lips curved into a smirk, filling his field of vision. “Do you want to stay and have sex, or leave and go back to your room?” Sherlock asked, the words gliding out more slowly.

“Well, alright,” John agreed, as if it was of no consequence. He licked his lips unconsciously.

Sherlock slid a hand into his hair, then gripped slightly to shake John. “It’s an either-or-question,” he corrected. “Pay attention. Are you staying or leaving?”

“Staying?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the question in his tone. Some part of him, he realized, had assumed sex was just part of the deal. That was a slave’s primary function here, and it was just luck, of a sort, that he hadn’t encountered a situation like this earlier. Did it really matter what answer he gave? He thought that idea should bother him more. But his answer was the same anyway. “Staying.”

**

Consciousness came slowly to John, mingled with disorientation. He was burrowed into a nicer class of bed than he’d ever had in his life, the mattress and blankets pillowing around him. It was only when he tried to move that the soreness set in, helping to clear his fuzzy mind. Oh yes, some mad berk with blazing blue eyes beating him with a piece of bamboo. Followed by—well, something rather nicer. He was going to pay the price for all of it today, though, he could tell.

Gradually he realized he was the only one in the room, and that there was a note pinned to one of the pillows. Sherlock’s handwriting was clear and elegant, and it reminded him with disdainful precision that he should _not_ have his wounds tended to. Why would anyone want to do _that_ , John thought sarcastically, forcing himself to sit up. He was uncertain of the protocol for the ‘morning after’ around here; those were awkward even in the best circumstances, which this clearly wasn’t. He presumed Sherlock would not have left a note if he intended to be around when John woke up, though.

After an unknown length of time sitting on the edge of the bed staring off into space John realized with a start that he had absolutely no idea what time it was, and he began scrambling around for a clock, watch, cell phone, anything. Sherlock seemed not to own such a thing. Roll call was at ten AM, and being late could be severely punished.

John threw on his clothes and finally found a clock in the bathroom—it was just after nine, if the clock could be trusted. The relief he momentarily felt was tossed aside by the latter thought and he decided to risk leaving. Surely Sherlock was done with him, or the note John folded and slipped into his pocket would’ve told him to stay. The suite of rooms was empty and silent; fortunately the hall seemed quiet as well. Logically John supposed he should not be embarrassed if he met someone; it wasn’t like he was sneaking out of an officer’s tent or something. No, he was just a slave going back to his room alone after doing his job. That was so much better.

John remembered the way out; the guards barely glanced at him as they let him pass from the family quarters to the slave zone. Some of the other slaves he started to pass looked at him funny, John thought, or maybe exhaustion, hunger, and soreness were combining to make him paranoid. Probably accounted for the slight giddiness in the back of his mind as well.

The clock had indeed been accurate; he wouldn’t be late for roll call, though he wouldn’t have time to get any extra sleep. Instead he raced through the shower and wolfed down some coffee and yogurt before joining the stream of other slaves heading for the assembly room.

“John!” Molly caught up with him. “Good morning! That was awfully nice, what you did yesterday.”

Had that been twelve hours ago? It seemed much shorter to John. “Oh, well, you’re welcome,” he replied. It seemed incongruent with the actual outcome of the situation. “Er, you shouldn’t take the bandages off yet,” he added, trying to remember how he’d gotten into this predicament.

“Oh, Sherlock would’ve been very careful, I’m sure,” Molly insisted breezily. “He felt so bad about hurting me, you know.”

“I’m sure,” John responded, but lightly; he didn’t want to disturb whatever coping mechanism Molly had.

“Lots of people think he’s awful or scary, but I think he’s quite nice,” she went on obliviously. “Did you stay for sex?”

“Er, yes.”

“Oh, well, you know, then,” she concluded, with a sweetly conspiratorial smile.

John felt the tips of his ears turn pink. “Er, yes,” he repeated discreetly. Sherlock was… energetic, certainly, and far more generous than one might imagine a master would be to a slave (if one imagined things like that), not to mention much less kinky than his hobby would suggest. Despite his stiffness and the careful way he had to lower himself into a seat in the assembly room, John could bring up no real complaints.

Sally looked him up and down, and for the first time John felt really uncomfortable. “John-221, light duty,” she judged, marking it down.

Well, he wasn’t going to argue with _that_. “Thank you,” he replied as she moved away. He could really use some extra sleep. Then he should probably look up the definition of ‘light duty,’ so he knew if he should report to the Infirmary or not. All slaves were for sex; but when they got too old, or were more in demand for other jobs, or simply weren’t in demand at all, they had to be put to work doing something else, and he wasn’t yet sure about the intricacies of that system. He was about to ask the question of Molly when the assembly room door opened—and in marched Sherlock, looking fresh, clean, groomed, and just as arrogant as he had last night.

Everyone hurried to their feet. “Doesn’t the man need sleep?” John hissed at Molly. She shook her head.

“Sally!” She was at the back of the room. “I need John again, to continue my experiment.” He did not look at John and barely glanced at Sally, eyes on his phone as he shot off a text.

“No, he’s not available,” Sally denied, returning to the front. John was surprised at the stab of disappointment he felt—hadn’t he just been planning how to spend a day of leisure? Sherlock would not give him leisure, he was sure of _that_.

Fortunately Sherlock did not give up easily. “Not available?” he scoffed. “Someone else requested him? I doubt that.” His tone was so insulting John found himself walking over before he’d consciously decided to.

“It’s okay, I’ll go,” he said, defiantly. _Now_ Sherlock looked at him, quick eyes taking in his disheveled appearance and wounded tone—which naturally made him smirk.

Sally frowned at his foolishness. “Weren’t you limping before?” she asked.

With a sudden start John realized he didn’t have his cane with him—hadn’t used it, hadn’t needed it, didn’t even know where it _was_. Not since he’d woken up in Sherlock’s bed. Maybe before that. And his leg _still_ didn’t hurt, even after he’d realized this. He gaped dully at Sally and Sherlock.

Sherlock’s smugness was insufferable. “I healed him,” he claimed with a little shrug, as though such miracles were just a normal part of his day.

“Well that’s… weird,” John finally sputtered, too amazed to say anything else.

“I want Molly, too,” Sherlock added to Sally, and the young woman started forward, a hopeful expression on her face.

“No, definitely not,” Sally countered. It was her job to protect the other slaves; and Sherlock was definitely one of the things she was protecting them _from_. “She’s on medical leave—“

Sherlock growled at her unhelpfulness. “John’s a doctor! He’ll supervise.”

John appreciated Sally’s position. Normally he would agree with it. But he saw Molly’s face, so eager to join them, and he thought of his leg, so marvelously pain-free that he wanted to race down the corridors. And he decided to take a chance on this strange and dangerous man who had far too much power over them, who was watching John far too closely.

“Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on her,” he told Sally casually.

Some people might have been grateful, or appreciated the gesture. Those people were not Sherlock. “He really is a terrible slave, isn’t he?” he commented to Sally with amusement.

She did not find it funny. “Fine. Have them both.” And good riddance to the lot of you, her tone seemed to say.

Permission given, Sherlock turned and walked out, with John and Molly following quickly behind, hand in hand and with matching slightly insane grins.


End file.
